


The Luxury of Pretending

by ceemobster



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, a little angst maybe, everyone but Bruce is only mentioned, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7378243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceemobster/pseuds/ceemobster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce didn't think he could ever be content.</p><p>Now with a sequel: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7477362">Countdown to Absolute</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Luxury of Pretending

"It's been a while," Bruce said, then cleared his throat. His voice sounded a little off even to himself. It really _had_ been a while.

His gaze travelled from the floor to the low display table pushed against the wall in front of him. The granite piece of furniture was as sturdy as the manor it belonged in, perhaps even just as old. Its surface was almost entirely covered with little trinkets that Thomas and Martha Wayne had accumulated from their travels over the years. Bruce had been there for only some of them, but his parents had told him the story behind each one.

The bottom of a portrait began about two feet above the table. The portrait itself stretched five feet tall and three and a half feet wide, easily the most noticeable object in the room. Bruce observed the dark walnut frame, how it gleamed under the overhead light. It looked like it had recently been given a thorough polishing. The glass covering was also in perfect shape, so clear and spotless Bruce could hardly see it. He considered the trouble Alfred had to periodically go through to maintain this picture alone, the ladders he had to climb.

Bruce took a sip of water from the glass in his hand. "I think the last time was when I got Damian back, wasn't it?" His question hung in the air. "That was a little over a year ago." He studied one of the three pairs of eyes in the picture—his own, but in a much younger face, much softer, much more naïve. "God, he really does look like me," he muttered to himself.

"Anyway, a multitude of things have happened since then." His gaze travelled to the two other figures in the portrait.

Bruce was a realist through and through, and he took pride in being one. He had always believed in what was factual, extrapolated from what he saw and heard and smelled and tasted and touched. But for the next ten minutes, just like every other time he had done this before, he allowed himself to dream, to believe in what was _not_ real, the luxury of pretending. He pretended that Thomas and Martha Wayne were there, standing in the room with him instead of six feet under, that their smiling faces were not merely immortalised on a piece of paper that hung on a wall of their home. He pretended that his parents could hear him.

"Some more important than others. Some good, some bad, some downright crazy. I suppose with the life I've chosen for myself, I'll never escape the crazy." He sighed. As if in response, the fireplace on the opposite end of the room crackled.

"Mostly good, though. I still find it hard to believe sometimes." He shook his head. "I never thought... I genuinely never thought that I could ever be so... content." _Happy_ , he thought, but even saying the word out loud didn't feel right, like it would shatter the illusion somehow. "Stupid, I know," he chuckled, not entirely sure if he was saying it to his parents or himself.

"In all seriousness, there really hasn't been much to grieve, if at all. Your grandchildren are all well." He nodded. "Even Jason and I are no longer so... confrontational. I'm still working on it."

Bruce turned around and walked over to a single lounge chair behind him. "But speaking of crazy," he continued, sitting down. From his new vantage point on the chair, he could see the entirety of the oversized portrait. "I've decided to do something crazy myself." He took another sip of water.

"Crazy in a figurative sense, needless to say, and as a relative term. Perhaps you wouldn't think this so crazy. Hell, _I_ don't think this is crazy." He shrugged. "But like I said, I never thought I'd feel this content. Incidentally, I never thought I'd decide to do something like this. So I suppose it's only crazy if seen from my past, outdated perspective, which is no longer relevant."

He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing when he accidentally pressed too hard on a bruise courtesy of his latest mission. "What I'm trying to say is... I just want you to know that I'm doing well. Very well." He smiled, small and genuine.

"I... love him. I know I will continue to do so forever. And I still don't completely understand why, but he loves me _back_. He's the best person I know and he's my best friend, and he _loves_ me, against all odds." Completely drowned in his reverie, Bruce began to absent-mindedly trace the edge of his glass with a finger. "He makes me feel... safe. Whole," he said, drawing a complete circle at the mouth of his glass. "He makes me _feel_."

Without taking his eyes off his parents' faces, Bruce set his glass down on the end table next to his chair. "As you know, we've been together for almost three years now, but we've loved each other for much longer than that. Just took me a while to realise it, I guess." He chuckled again, low and brief, but hearty. The sound quickly died out in the perfect silence of the room. "The truth is I'm still learning. He's much better at it than I am."

Bruce leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and clasped his hands together. He finally tore his gaze away from the portrait and looked down at his hands. "That said, I am one hundred percent sure about this. Like I've never been sure of anything else in my life," he continued, solemn now.

After a few seconds of absolute silence, he straightened his back and unclasped his hands. One of them went into his pants pocket to fish out the black velvet box. His heart made a leap when his fingertips caressed it, not for the first time since he had bought the object, as if it sent electrical current coursing through his body. The feeling was not unpleasant, but foreign. It was nerves and excitement rolled up into one, and he didn't think he had ever felt this way before.

Bruce looked back up at the portrait. "I'm one hundred percent sure that I want to spend the rest of my life with him," he spoke in one long breath, laying his whole heart in that one single sentence.

The box lay primly on his open palm. With his other hand, he pulled the top open, revealing the diamond encrusted platinum ring inside. There would indubitably be protests raised on the money he had spent on it, but if paired with a "yes", he honestly wouldn't care.

"Mom, Dad," Bruce called softly and smiled. "I want you to know that Clark is _the one_ , as cliché as it sounds. I'm going to ask him tonight, and I hope you're proud of me."

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews/comments are always welcome.


End file.
